


Shadows in the Glass

by IdleJane



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erik and his feelings, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Stargazing, Will add more as I go, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-04 22:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14030634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleJane/pseuds/IdleJane
Summary: He doesn’t want this.He’d asked for the very opposite of this.A swift death.The freedom that came from making his own choice.But as he listened to the shuffle of bodies rushing over to him he realized that T’Challa wouldn’t let him have even that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So first and foremost I want to say thank you to everyone that took the time to read/comment/kudos and translate Bare Bones. I’m so grateful for all of your kind words and encouragement. You guys have absolutely no idea what it means to me! I also want to let you know that this fic is a work in progress, I will be updating routinely so check back if you find that you're still interested. Any and all constructive criticism is totally cool, help me improve!
> 
> I'll see you at the finish line!

Erik Killmonger was never known for being a patient man. He was used to getting what he wanted, of his own volition, in his own time. It was very seldom that anything ever stood in his way and managed to stay there. His father used to call him stubborn, shaking his head and smiling at him as if Erik’s self-willed attitude was something that reminded him of someone else. 

He used to try and tell him that sometimes life just wasn’t fair. 

That no one always got their way. 

Erik hadn’t believed him until he sank to his knees beside his dead body and saw firsthand that his words held some truth. 

Since then he had learned to be meticulous when seeking out the things he wanted. He’d learned how to be patient, how to bide his time and wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. 

He had a plan, a divisive plan, that he’d run through in his head thousands of times since the last time he ever heard his father’s voice. He’d rehearsed his lines in the mirror, in his sleep, as he drove knives and bullets into the chests of targets as a soldier. He had calculated every possible scenario and ran them through until the words felt like muscle memory. 

He knew from the moment that he landed in Wakanda, dragging Klaue’s dead body across the wild fields of grass, that it was his to rule.

All of the stories his father had told him as a child held no comparison to the real thing. 

The feel of heat bearing down on his shoulder blades, the prickle of sweat beading in the space above his upper lip, the freshly born light of a sun at high noon throwing every mountain and valley into a brilliant silver glow. 

He’d smiled crudely in the faces of the guards that met him where his helicopter touched ground. Watching as their eyes widened when he pulled back the wrap on Klaue’s head, the crass dead smile on man’s face more than enough evidence that the deed was done. 

W’Kabi had made sure to escort him personally to the palace, through the busy streets of Wakanda’s court, his eyes gleaming with a look Erik knew well enough to call retribution. He never said it outright but Erik was a smart enough man to know that W’Kabi has been waiting for Klaue’s death for a long time. He was sure that he could use that information at a later date to call upon him for a favor or two, when the time came. 

But now though, as he’s being pushed through the windings halls of the palace, he thinks back to everything that brought him to this moment. Thinks back to the lines he’d rehearsed, back to clammy the feeling of his father’s dead body in his arms as he bled on the carpet in their small apartment back in Oakland. 

He doesn’t give a shit who’s sitting on that throne beyond the doors. 

Crowned King or not.

And that’s probably the start of the problem. 

Someone pushes him through the doors, the force of their shove is enough to have him staggering for a moment. He rights himself before anyone can notice, turning to stare down every curious onlooker in the room. 

Armed guards flank him on either side, their faces drawn and pensive. 

He tightens his hands into fists where they’re linked at his back, shrugging away from the grip that settles heavily near the scarred skin of his shoulder. He lets them guide him nearly to the foot of the throne, feeling the start of a smile tug at his lips.

 _Finally_ , is the first thought in his mind. 

The weight of his father’s gold chain feels heavy around his neck, digging in to the skin there. 

His eyes fall on the Queen Mother standing beside the throne, her face carefully blank, one of her long slender hands holding the side of the gilded chair as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She doesn’t look scared, but there’s something behind that flinty look in her eyes that Erik doesn’t like.

Suspicion mostly, panic definitely. 

He draws upon the latter emotion, sneering like a feral thing and watching the look in her eyes change to something closer to fear. 

_That’s better_. 

“What do you want?” a voice asks, pulling Erik’s attention away from the Queen Mother and down toward the man seated on the throne. Erik’s surprised by how soft the timber of his voice is. His face is as carefully blank as the woman stood beside him.

Something in Erik’s throat constricts when he finds T’Challa’s eyes on him, waiting for him to respond to his question. 

Erik had seen him on tv once before, when his father was killed by an explosion at the conference that had been held in Vienna. The grief stricken look on his face as he climbed over his father’s dead body and clung to his lapels reminding Erik of how he’d held his father in those last few moments. Gripping his t-shirt until someone else pried his stiff fingers off. 

He’s prettier in person which isn’t something Erik had factored in as a possibility before. Long eyelashes, high cheekbones, a soft full mouth that is pulled into a tight line as he leans back against the throne like he belongs there. 

Erik tilts his head to the side, trying to back track and ground himself by remembering what he’s here for. A muscle in his jaw jumps when he clenches his teeth and takes a step forward, never taking his eyes off of the man before him.

He barely makes it halfway to the foot of the throne before one of the guards intercepts his path, a gold spear leveling at his chest.

He smiles at T’Challa over the top of her head, “I’m here for the throne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

He dies on the mountaintop with a blade pushed up under his ribs. The golden halo of sunset softens the edges of his vision as it gets swallowed up into the hillside. He remembers feeling the craggy surface of the ground coming up to meet him on the way down. The earth digging into his shoulder, into the side of his face, sediment and loam so eager to pull him under. 

The darkness that followed death wasn’t as scary as he thought it’d be. He wades through it and lets it settle over him like a blessing, the cold feeling in his fingertips and the distant ache in his abdomen subsiding the further he walks.

He’s alone here, in the afterlife. 

That surprises him because he’d expected something far worse. 

After all the stories he’d been told as a child of what death was, he’d been convinced that he’d see the ghosts of all the people he’d killed. Their haunted eyes staring at him from the shadows, their voices calling for him, spitting venomous words at him as they sank their teeth and nails into his flesh. More than anything he was afraid of seeing his father's ghost, frowning at him in a way he never did. Condemning him for all of his misdeeds and turning him away into the oblivion, letting him spend the rest of his eternity scorned and exiled. 

Now he can’t help but wonder if hell was just a void where he’d be left to dwell alone with only his thoughts for company. 

Perhaps there was no better torment than that. 

He doesn’t expect to find himself coughing awake, gasping for air as he’s pulled out of the blackness. 

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and he finds himself squinting in the haze of light, the sound of music swimming through the dizzying swirl of blood rushing to his head. 

The pounding of his beating heart is the only affirmation that he needs. 

He’s alive, strapped to a biobed and breathing. He closes his eyes and thunks his head against the soft slab underneath him, breathing harshly through his nose.

He doesn’t want this. 

He’d asked for the very opposite of this. 

A swift death. 

The freedom that came from making his own choice. 

But as he listened to the shuffle of bodies rushing over to him he realized that T’Challa wouldn’t let him have even that. 

“You’re awake,” a soft voice says. He feels the table under him sway ever so slightly and he opens his eyes. 

Shuri.

The girl studies him for a moment, reading his vitals and writing something down on the tablet in her hand. She frowns when she finds him watching her.

“He will be here soon, try not to move,” she turns toward the doors, looking over her shoulder for a moment and raising an eyebrow, “and don’t try anything stupid.”

The two lab attendants who’d been beside her follow her out into the hall and Erik watches them through half closed eyes, everything tilting for a moment before he blinks away nausea. 

It doesn’t take long for T’Challa to come visit him. 

He lingers in the doorway, flanked by Dora’s on either side. Erik catches Okoye staring at him over T'Challa’s shoulder, lips turned downward like she’s smelling something especially foul. Her sisters look just as unhappy to be there, a sea of red and silver, their spears gripped tightly at their sides. 

T’Challa waves a hand and sets them into motion and Erik watches them all turn and retreat down the hall. 

All except for one. 

Okoye stays rooted to her spot behind T’Challa, inclining her head when he raises a hand and turns to look at her. 

“It’s okay,” he says, “leave us.”

She hesitates for a second, her eyes coming back to Erik as her jaw works in frustration. She doesn’t say a word as she turns and starts to walk down the hall, her spear dragging across the floor like a threat. 

Erik gets her message loud and clear. 

He watches as T’Challa walks over to him and comes to stand by his bed. His posture is every bit as regal as his title implies, the silver claws of his necklace shining mockingly from underneath the collar of his robes. 

“You’re looking better,” he says, a hand coming up to one of the straps fastened around Erik’s chest. 

“You should’ve let me die,” Erik spits, taking the ache he feels in his stomach and letting it rise to the back of his throat. He tries to flinch away from T’Challa’s touch when the man’s fingers come to rest on the bed, just a couple of inches shy of the fresh pucker of his newest scar. Erik represses the shiver that runs under his skin at the faint touch of fingertips, abs pulling taut like he’d been shocked. 

“I couldn’t do that,” T’Challa sighs, his eyebrows matching furrows on his forehead. 

“And why the fuck not, huh? You think I’d be thankful that you spared my life? Is that it?”

T’Challa doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes straying up toward the top of the biobed as he mulls something over. Hardly a second passes before he’s reaching for the straps once more and they come sliding off of Erik’s chest allowing him to take his first real breath since waking. 

“No,” T’Challa says. “I didn’t think that at all.”

Erik closes his eyes, his throat burns. “Then why’d you do it?” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping that this is all just a dream, “Wakanda would’ve been better off with me dead.”

More silence follows his proclamation. He’s half tempted to open his eyes to see if T’Challa has left the room altogether but he resists the urge. He can feel his presence in the room still, the unmistakable heat of his body looming close by. 

“I saved you because you’re family,” the words are soft, troubled. He finds T’Challa staring down at him with all of the weariness of an aged King. He looks tired like he’s lived through several lifetimes since Erik has last seen his face. Erik bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, ignoring the part of him that wondered how long it’s been since T’Challa had actually slept.

“And look where that’s gotten us,” he responds, hating himself when his voice lowers to match the whisper tone T’Challa’s has taken. 

“I know,” T’Challa responds, “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back! I'm so sorry for the irregular updates, life has been keeping me SUPER busy. Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos, it really means a lot to me. Any and all encouragement is greatly appreciated. You can also find me on tumblr at idlejanes.tumblr.com. Come say hey!
> 
> I'll see you at the finish line!

Erik’s life is complete shit now that he’s alive, resurrected, what the fuck ever. It’s been nearly two weeks since he’s been brought back from the brink of death and every day after has been agonizingly slow. The royal court has unanimously agreed to banish him to his room - no, make that plural, _rooms_ \- until they figure out what to do with him and while Erik had originally thought that chilling in the palace was going to be interesting it definitely hasn’t been. 

Every once in a while someone will come to visit him, take him out to the gardens where he can get some sun, let him wander into the kitchens long after the rest of the palace has eaten their fill. Most of the servants are scared of him and he doesn’t do anything to abate their fears. He’s itchy and agitated and often finds himself snapping at anyone who lingers in his path for too long. There’s a thrum under his skin that makes him want to hit something, but he knows that striking some innocent person quaking with fear will only make him feel worse about himself. 

Fortunately for him, his daily routine of monotony changes a little over two weeks in. 

A woman lets herself into his rooms, not quite closing the door behind herself as she steps inside. Erik turns his attention from where he’d been counting the beams of vibranium holding aloft the vaulted ceiling above his bed to study the tense set of her shoulders as she pulls the scarf away from her face. It takes him a moment to recognize her but when he does he finds himself sitting entirely upright. 

A grin stretches across the corners of his lips in a way that feels unnatural even to him. 

“Well,” he drawls just to see her upper lip curl in disgust. “Never expected the King’s girl to come and pay me a visit.”

Nakia says nothing in response, her eyes flicking around his room curiously, the analytical look on her face reminding him of T’Challa’s studious way of taking in a room. He hasn’t seen her since they fought one another on the hilltop and even that feels so long ago. She’d been furious and rightfully so and the anger in the shift of her muscles is still very much there, subtly hidden by her discomfort. He wonders what could’ve possibly drawn her here.

“You should really clean in here,” she says by way of greeting, tilting her head to the side as she takes in Erik’s ratty sweats and t-shirt. Erik is taken aback by her words but he musters up a smirk just for her, crossing his legs at the ankles as he leans back on the bed to study her. 

“Something tells me you didn’t come in here to mother me,” he squints at her in suspicion,“ he sent you didn’t he?”

Nakia snorts and folds her arms across her chest, “you are confused about how things work between the two of us. I sent myself.”

 _Interesting_ , Erik thinks.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, curious now. “And why would you do that?”

“I don't like you," she says, stepping further into the room. The sunlight bounces off of the ring blades attached to her hip. "But you're in your room all day, feeling pent up and angry at the world,” she pauses, shrugs, “and I know as well as anyone what it feels like to be trapped.”

“You don’t know shit about how I feel,” Erik says through clenched teeth.

“Maybe you’re right.” Nakia agrees, “but what do you serve to gain by feeling sorry for yourself?”

She glances around as if to emphasize her point. Erik’s eyes follow hers around his room and he tries to ignore the sinking feeling shame when he sees how messy it’s gotten over the past week or so spent scratching at the walls. It’s not like he wasn’t given permission to roam the palace and its surrounding grounds as he wished, he just hadn’t felt much of an urge to do so. He didn’t want guards shadowing his every move, cautiously pacing six steps behind him and making him feel every bit the prisoner he was. 

“I don’t.” 

He says it more to convince himself than her. 

Nakia nods, her face remaining impossibly neutral. A flicker of irritation starts to curl at the base of Erik’s spine and it makes him want to spit venom. He holds his tongue in check and waits her out, wondering if she’ll give up on this little charity gig she’s taken upon herself by trying to come in here and give him a pep talk. 

“I suppose that we can convince ourselves of many things.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” he asks when her feet stay rooted to the floor. 

“We’re going to spar,” Nakia says, her voice steady.

“Spar,” Erik says, watching her start to cautiously circle his room. She keeps her hands at her sides as if afraid to touch anything, pacing at the edge of his bed. “We’re not going to spar.”

Nakia nods like she’d expected him to turn her down. She stops when she rounds the foot of his bed once more, spinning pointedly on her heel so that she’s facing him head-on. 

“I had expected you to protest.”

“Rightfully so, you think I’m letting you put a knife in me on _purpose_? I ain’t stupid.”

Her eyebrow twitches but she remains impassive. Erik wonders what the hell she’s thinking coming into his room without extra security, talking to him as if they weren’t and aren’t still on opposite ends of the same playing field. They’ve never been allies, him being held hostage in her boyfriends' palace didn’t change that. 

“Look, whatever wacked up shit T’Challa’s got you on I-”

“I have already said I sent myself.” She crosses her arms, “you serve no purpose sitting here alone in your rooms. Consider this an outlet for all those pent-up emotions you’ve got.”

Then something clicks in Erik’s head. Nakia was smart, he’d heard of many singing their praises about her. She wouldn’t come here without some ulterior motive. She didn’t bring any backup because she had a favor to ask of Erik. One that she couldn’t bare anyone else knowing about. 

“Nah,” Erik tilts his head to the side. “This isn’t about me at all, is it?”

“I don’t get what you mean,” Nakia responds, not quite meeting Erik’s eyes.

“Last time we met I had a knife to your throat,” he continues, smiling even as the carefully composed look on Nakia’s face remains in place. “You want to study me. You’re trying to prove to yourself that you can take me down when the time comes.” 

There’s a flicker of something behind Nakia’s eyes and Erik half expects her to deny it. She doesn’t say anything in response, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Erik takes it as a yes anyway.

He rises from his bed pulling his necklace from underneath his t-shirt. Her eyes follow the golden chain to where it pools in his palm, studying the ring there.

“Aight,” he sniffs, rolling his shoulders. “Guess I can entertain you for a while.”

:::

Nakia is relentless. 

She’s quick on her feet, lithe and deadly. 

She avoids getting hit as much as she lands a blow. 

Erik finds himself struggling to keep up, panting and staggering. 

He’s out of practice. 

“He asks about you often,” Nakia says circling him across the floor, her gaze calculating as she looks for an opening. 

“Who does?” Erik asks, finding himself doing the same.

She’s been favoring her right leg ever since he landed a blow to her upper thigh. They’re using spears instead of weapons they’re both comfortable with. They’re blunt and don’t do more than bruise. Nakia’s blades have been left discarded in the corner of the room alongside Erik’s knives. Every once in a while Erik finds her eyes straying toward them, he wonders if she intends to kill him with them one of these rounds.

“Don’t play stupid,” she tuts, moving easily out of his way when he attempts to hit her with the dull head of his spear. 

Erik ignores the curdle of anger beginning to burn under his skin. He hasn’t thought about T’Challa much since their last talk in Shuri’s lab. 

He’s tried to forget the haunted look in T’Challa’s eyes when he’d said he was sorry. Piss poor apologies couldn’t erase the fact that Erik was alive when he wanted desperately not to be. 

A laugh erupts from his throat at the idea that T’Challa has been asking about his well being. 

What the fuck did he care anyway? 

He’d gotten what he wanted. 

A cushy throne, a happy family, a ruthlessly fierce and admittedly competent girlfriend. 

Why should he care if Erik was doing alright? 

“Well tell his royal highness that I’m fuckin’ peachy.”

Nakia raises her spear above her head and Erik lifts his to block her blow, finding himself staring at her between the space where metal meets.

“You need him,” she says as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. 

Erik finds himself starting to retort but the words struggle out of his mouth. His feet get lifted out from under him, Nakia’s staff hitting him across the back of his shins and sending him crashing to the ground. She spins the lightweight metal rod deftly in between her fingers before leveling it at his throat, her lips bend in something resembling a smile. Erik tries to sit up but she presses the spear into his Adam's apple until he snarls at her.

“Yield,” she arches an eyebrow, “or this little guy will find a new home in your esophagus.”

She digs the metal into his skin as if to prove a point and Erik knows when he’s been beaten. He doesn’t say the words aloud but he does raise a palm in surrender, breathing only when the edge of the spear disappears from near his throat. Nakia regards him for a moment before holding out a hand in offering. Erik bats it away, searing hot anger bubbling in his veins as he gets to his feet and clenches his fists. He squares off again on the mat, “I don’t need anyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Nakia shrugs lazily. “Maybe one day it’ll be true.”

:::

Erik’s nights don’t get any better even after picking up sparring. Most of the time he returns to his rooms feeling sore and beaten, a collection of well-earned bruises riddling his bones as he picks his way through the clutter he’s accumulated. There’s something satisfying about the ache, the screaming of his muscles. He hasn’t worked his body like this in such a long time he was certain he would forget how, but it felt nice relearning the dance of combat. Sparring was a definite improvement from the frustratingly long days he’d spent doing nothing before Nakia took him under her wing. 

And yet, even after long days spent rebuilding his reflexes and sparring until exhaustion, Erik doesn’t sleep well. 

He spends most of his nights tossing and turning, refusing to give in to the dreams that wait for him behind closed eyelids. Occasionally he’ll see his father’s face in the brief interludes between falling asleep and shaking himself awake, his profile bathed in the neon colors of the ancestral plane, his voice somber and urgent all at once. 

Erik struggles out of bed on nights like those, sweating and feeling like his skin is two sizes too tight. 

He doesn’t want to dream. 

Doesn’t want to see his father’s face.

He’s done so many terrible things that he knows he can’t look his Pops in the eyes without feeling every bit the monster he’s become. His father would be ashamed of him. The very thought of his disapproval nearly drives Erik mad. So he stays awake, counts the stars outside of his window and gives them names and storylines and depth, just like he’d done as a boy sitting in the crook of his father’s arm. 

The night sky never changes, no matter how much Erik has since his childhood. It’s his only pure connection to his father now. 

Every once in a while Nakia’ll stare at him, at the bags under his eyes. She doesn’t say anything about them but he knows that she can see them getting darker with every restless night he spends awake. 

They still spar with the same amount of aggression as they had the first time but they often sit together and talk too. She carefully picks around his life, asking about what he does when they’re not together and talking about her own missions when she goes away from the palace. Erik tries to ignore the twisted feeling in his gut whenever she casually mentions the things that T’Challa gets up to. 

He’s been busy, Erik knows that much. 

Taking command of an entire kingdom and cooperating with the Avengers has kept him very occupied. 

Nakia worries about him a lot, and the more comfortable she becomes with Erik the more she talks about her worries.

Erik doesn’t mind it though, he understands that it’s normal to worry about someone that you love. 

It just strikes him as odd when he starts to find himself worrying too. 

Weeks go by and spring gives way to the unrelenting heat of summer. 

Erik spends the better part of his days sweating through his tunics and griping about the sun.

He would’ve thought that growing up in California would allow for him to be well adjusted to the heat and humidity but he’s horribly wrong. He spends most of his time during the day indoors, browsing the library that he’d found wandering the palace and occasionally getting thrown across the room by Nakia.

Most nights he finds himself wandering the gardens, touching the faces of flowers turned toward the moon. It’s cool outside at night and he likes listening to the throaty call of crickets.

The stars are even prettier out in the darkness of the gardens. Erik sits on the edge of the fountain, running a hand through the water and staring up at them, silently observing the constellations. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s much too late. 

“Oh,” a soft voice says, pulling Erik’s attention away from the sky. 

Erik nearly leaps off the edge of the fountain when he sees T’Challa coming toward him. He’s got a hand in his pocket but he waves the other in hesitant greeting. Erik can see the ring glint on his finger even in the dark.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, pulling his hand out of the water and wiping it on the side of his pants. 

T’Challa shrugs, “I suppose I could ask you the same question.”

Erik stands, half prepared to retreat inside. 

He can watch the stars from his room. 

“Hey wait,” T’Challa holds both hands up, fingers splayed as if in surrender. “I hadn’t meant to startle you.”

Erik snorts, “you didn’t startle me. ‘M not some scaredy cat.”

“Good,” T’Challa responds after a beat of silence. “You look well.”

The words sound mocking. 

T’Challa’s eyes run over him briefly, stopping when they meet Erik’s stare head-on. There’s a flicker of a smile teasing at his lips and Erik curls his hands up into fists.

“Oh fuck you,” he snaps, feeling the familiar white-hot anger build in his chest. He gets ready to fire back with a scathing comeback but the look on T’Challa’s face makes him falter. T’Challa looks as exhausted as Erik feels. The bags under his eyes are a mirror of the ones under Erik’s. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink since Erik’s seen him last. 

_No wonder Nakia was worried about him_ , he thinks. 

“You don’t look any more rested than I do,” Erik mutters, turning his eyes away. 

T’Challa shakes his head slightly, sighs, “being a King isn’t as easy as I’d been trained to believe it would be.”

“You come here to gloat?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Well I’d come out here to think but I hadn’t expected any company.” 

“I was just leaving,” Erik starts to round the width of the fountain, coming up short when T’Challa steps in his way. 

“You don’t have to go -- I don’t mind the company,” he says, “I just hadn’t expected anyone else to be up.”

Eriks stares at him before looking out over the gardens. He knew that if he went back to his rooms he’d be up anyway, pacing at the end of his bed until he couldn’t anymore. He wasn’t about to let T’Challa run him off from the only place in the entire palace that made him feel somewhat calm. 

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes, dropping himself back on the edge of the fountain.

He doesn’t put his hand back in the water but he does lean back, crossing his legs at the ankles and trying to get as comfortable as possible now that he’s got company. T’Challa blinks down at him before taking a tentative seat beside him, sitting a respectful distance away. They don’t speak for a long moment and Erik feels his skin humming with irritation, he wonders if he should talk first to dissolve the tension. He opens his mouth to speak but T’Challa manages to beat him to it.

“The stars are even more beautiful when you can see them away from the city,” he whispers like it’s a secret. There’s a soft smile on his face and he looks like he’s somewhere else. “Out in the mountains, it’s almost as if you can reach up and touch them.”

He turns to give Erik a look, the light of the moon a faint echo in his eyes. 

“Baba and I used to-” he stops and swallows, as if he suddenly remembers who he’s sitting next to.

Erik casts him a quick sidelong glance, curling his hand into a fist in his lap.

“Yeah,” he says, seeing the sadness in the sudden downward turn of T’Challa’s lips. “Mine too. We used to sit and watch the stars for hours.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. There’s something about the grief on T’Challa’s face that makes him feel like it’s okay to be vulnerable, even if only for a moment. No matter how much Erik hates him, they share in their grief. Losing their fathers may very well be the only commonality they’ll ever have. 

“We’d give them names and stories.”

T’Challa nods, “Baba and I did the same thing.”

“Really? Huh.”

“Would you like to compare stories?”

The question catches Erik off guard. He hadn’t expected to be sitting here playing nice with T’Challa much less have his undivided attention.  
“Uh, I dunno man.”

“Come on,” T’Challa encourages, “why don’t you point out a few of your favorites for me?”

Erik sucks in a breath before saying, “okay um lemme see. You see that cluster over there?”

He lifts a finger, watching as T’Challa tries to follow it to the sky. He squints for a moment, leaning forward as if that’ll help him see better. Erik has to stifle a laugh at that, watching as T’Challa huffs before saying, “what am I supposed to be looking at?”

Erik rolls his eyes and scoots a bit closer, “c’mon man you said you looked at the stars as a kid. Right _there_ those three stars connect to form the body, those over there are the legs and that one is the head.”

“And who is that supposed to be?”

“Asase Yaa,” Erik says, “the Goddess of the earth. She’s recognized as a-”

“Source of truth,” T’Challa interjects.

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “We are said to return to her when we die.”

T’Challa raises his eyebrows at him, “it would appear we were told similar stories then.”

“I suppose so,” Erik leans away when he finds himself sitting too close to T’Challa. “I didn’t know ya’ll knew about any mythology outside of Wakanda.”

“You’d be surprised.”

And Erik was indeed surprised. He turns and finds himself on the receiving end of T'Challa's stare once more and he starts to question just how much he thought he knew about him. Maybe there was more to him than he’d originally thought. T’Challa rises before he can follow this line of thought, stretching his hands over his head and yawning deeply. 

“I think my lack of sleep is actually catching up to me,” he jokes, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe we can do this again sometime?” 

Erik shifts a little, feeling a chilly gust of wind creep up under his shirt. 

“Yeah,” he doesn’t know why he finds himself agreeing but the words are out before he can take them back. “That would be cool."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I wasn't sure how to approach this chapter but I felt it was necessary to write. Erik is a very complicated character and I want to do him justice by studying the many facets of his behavior and ultimately address the more complex elements of who he is. He's suffered a lot growing up, and I don't want to come off as sounding "fake deep" or anything but I think that he deserves this chance to heal and come to terms with his past and this chapter is really dedicated to that. 
> 
> The process of healing is slow going but I promise not to draw it out too much! I just don't think it right to simply jump into the romantic aspects of his relationship with T'Challa before Erik gets his chance to find peace. I hope that that's cool with ya'll. I promise things are going to be a bit more interesting in the chapters to come so I hope that you stick around!
> 
> I also want to say that I am no way a licensed medical professional and if you, or someone you know, is suffering from PTSD please seek help from a qualified source. 
> 
> See you at the finish line!

Going to therapy hadn’t been his idea. He’d been sitting with Nakia one day, drinking water and staring at the sun, when she’d suggested it. 

“Have you started sleeping any better?” she asked, running a hand in circles around her ring blades.

Erik shrugged, “Nope.”

Nakia didn’t sigh but it was a very near thing. Her worrying had evolved to encompass not only T’Challa’s wellbeing but his as well. He tried not to feel any type of way about that.

“You need sleep, Erik.”

“Yeah well,” he rubbed a hand over his chin, the scraggly bits of beard itching against his palm. “I’m never tired.”

And that was a lie. He was always tired, a bone-deep kind of tired that made it impossible to settle. But he didn't think she'd want to know that.

There’d been a pause then. 

Nakia was staring at him but he was pretending not to notice. She cut her eyes away before he could meet hers, turning to stare off into the horizon and distance herself a bit. The gardens were just outside the window of the gymnasium, summer flowers struggled up from the dirt under the careful eye of the palace’s gardeners making everything look green and new. Erik wonders if T’Challa told her about them stargazing together the other night, sitting under the same sky and forming a truce for a singular moment in time.

“Perhaps you should see someone about this,” Nakia says, squinting out at nothing.

Erik sucks his teeth, a hand automatically going to his neck to scratch an itch that wasn’t there. It was a sign of nervousness, one that he hadn’t grown out of yet. Nakia seemed to notice because her eyebrow’s ticked upward at the tell. 

“What like a shrink? That’s not really my speed, Nak.”

“Everyone can benefit from having someone to talk to,” she insisted. “You don’t have to tell them your whole life story, just, talk to them…”

 _Talking_ , Erik mused. _That right there was the hard part._

He’d gone to a therapist as a kid after his dad died. His Auntie had insisted he go, not because she actually gave a shit about his wellbeing but because his elementary school had suggested it after he’d gotten into one too many brawls on the playground. 

The school counselor said he had PTSD. 

He hadn’t known what that meant until he was sitting in the modestly decorated office of a woman named Dr. S. Cabral, swinging his feet in the chair and trying to read the pamphlets left out on the tables all around him. 

She’d been a nice woman with flowery perfume and oval-shaped fingernails. The first few sessions they played with toys and Erik was able to draw without having to say too much. Eventually, his sessions with her became few and far between as his Auntie had decided he was a lost cause and she didn’t have any more money to spare for therapy.

He wasn’t sure what it’d be like going back as a man but he knew that letting someone pick at his insides wasn’t something he wanted.

“What would we even talk about?”

“Whatever you want to, I guess,” Nakia said. “Surely there’s a lot going on that you don’t tell me and I’m basically the only friend you have.”

Erik pushed her shoulder but a flutter of something erupted inside him at the word.

_Friend._

_What a strange thing to say._

He hadn’t even thought about her like that but he supposed that that’s exactly what they were. They spent a lot of time together, talking, joking, doing all the things Erik thought he’d never do again. To have her say the word aloud made Erik have to hide a smile, they were friends. Even if she spent the better part of their time together chasing him around the gym with an array of weapons.

So Erik took her advice. He’d asked for a shrink and one was all too happily provided to him. 

Dr. Rimono Ku is a short woman with kind dark eyes. 

Her office is clean and bright, everything around him gold and expensive. It makes him slightly uncomfortable to be there, he shifts in her doorway after the receptionist tells him to go into her office, toeing the precipice of making a decision until one was made for him. 

“Come in child,” she smiles at him, standing from where she’d been shuffling papers at her desk. “Come in come in.”

Erik takes a deep breath and does just that, shutting the door behind himself. 

She reaches out a hand and takes one of Erik’s sweaty ones, gesturing around the room. 

“Please,” she says, “sit anywhere you’d like.”

Erik chooses the chair positioned in the far corner, the purple velvet is soft against his back. Dr. Rimono Ku smiles at him, going to take her seat behind her desk, “excellent choice, that’s one of my favorites as well.”

Erik settles back against it absently rubbing at the armrest with his thumb. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Erik admits, his leg bobbing up and down in a fit of anxiety. He controls his breathing by inhaling through his nose and exhaling out of his mouth. Dr. Rimono Ku doesn’t seem bothered by the confession if anything it makes her smile more, the deep leathery folds of her face like caverns of a ravine.

“Well,” she picks up a pen and starts writing on the paper in front of her, the feathered end of her pen hitting her nose on every pass. “Most people don’t know why they’re here.”

Erik wants to ask what that means but she continued on.

“But I can tell you that everyone who’s stepped through that door is carrying a weight they think they have to bear alone.” She stops, looks up to study him. “What’s your weight?”

Erik shrugs, he had a lot of weights. Things he held onto that seemed to pull him further under the tide, things that there very nearly drowning him as he constantly got swept up in the current. “I’m not sleeping well,” he said, starting with the truest statement.

She _hmms_ at that.

“Why don’t we talk about that?”

“What’s there to say? I’m not sleeping, that’s pretty much the beginning of the end of it.”

“When was the last time you slept?

Erik had to think about that, “a day 一 no, two days ago?”

Dr. Rimono Ku doesn’t look disapproving, she just folds her hands together on her desk and asks, “and why do you think you’re not sleeping?”

Nightmares, both old and new. 

He dreamt of drowning a lot, dreamt of his father’s face cracking open and dripping neon, he dreamt of dying. But he couldn’t possibly tell her all of that...could he?

“I have nightmares,” he says.

“Are they the same ones every time?”

He shrugs again, “mostly.”

“So you keep yourself awake to avoid them as much as possible?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Rimono Ku nods like she understands, “how often do you have pleasant dreams?”

“Almost never,” Erik answers honestly. “Never.”

“I see,” she leans down to a drawer in her desk and fishes around. The bangles on her wrist chime frantically for a moment before she finds what she’s looking for. 

“Have you ever heard of Image Rehearsal Therapy?” she asks, placing a leather-bound notebook on her desk. 

Erik shakes his head, “no.”

“Well, when you wake up from a nightmare you tend to wake when you’re the most afraid. We’re going to learn how to change the script and I wish to guide you through reimagining your nightmares with slightly less frightening outcomes.” She slides the notebook to the opposite end of her desk, putting it in front of him. “The goal is to create positive endings for the nightmares that you find yourself having frequently.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Erik picks the notebook up, the spine crackles in his hands when he opens it.

“That is for you to keep so that you can write down any thoughts and concerns you may have. It’s also to help you write down and rehearse your nightmares and write them with new endings. It’s completely private and you don’t have to share it with me or anyone else if you don’t wish to.”

She slides a pen over, the feathers tickle his fingers when he picks it up.

He finds himself laughing at the simplicity of it, he would’ve thought she’d have some high tech variation of a writing utensil, courtesy of Shuri’s lab. But everything about her seems relatively old fashioned. 

“We’re on this journey together,” she says, smiling. “If you have any questions or concerns as we progress through this, if you feel like you’re not ready yet, please let me know and we can stop, start over or try again.”

Erik can feel tightness form in his throat. He speaks in a barely there whisper, “thank you.”

Dr. Rimono Ku nods, “you’re welcome my Prince.”

:::

When night comes Erik goes back to the gardens with his notebook tucked under his arm. 

He’d spent a little over an hour with Dr. Rimono Ku and he feels somewhat hopeful about the future laid out before him. She’d been kind and patient when answering his questions and hadn’t looked remotely afraid of him which was nice. Maybe she hadn’t been around much during his brief time on the throne. 

Either way, he’s thankful for a headstart in the right direction.

The gardens are empty when he settles in his usual spot.

“You beat me out here,” T’Challa’s voice calls as Erik settles on the edge of the fountain. 

He doesn’t startle. 

He’s gotten used to T’Challa sneaking up on him. 

“Will you stop sneakin' around in the dark like some kind of predator?” he asks, twisting his lips in distaste. T’Challa chuckles, looking down at Erik for a long, slow moment. Erik tries not to be unnerved by his nonchalant smile, pulling his pen out of his pocket and worrying his fingers across the finely feathered end. 

“You gonna stare at me all night or are you gonna sit down?”

T’Challa shrugs, remaining standing. 

“What’ve you got there?” he asks, pointing down at the notebook in Erik’s lap. 

Erik puts a protective hand over it, pushing his pen inside, “it’s mine is what it is.”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow, “a notebook?”

“No shit it’s a notebook.”

A grin starts to form on T’Challa’s face, “ah so you’ve become a poet, tapping into your sensitive side I see?”

“Yeah whatever man, fuck off. And would you sit down? You’re making me nervous looming over me like that.”

T’Challa takes a step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry I hadn’t intended to make you uncomfortable.”

Erik pats the marble next to him, meeting T’Challa’s eyes again, “then sit down.”

“Actually,” T’Challa starts, “I wished to show you something.”

“What?”

T’Challa’s grin shines in the darkness and Erik averts his eyes when he says, “how do you feel about going for a walk with me?”

:::

Walking is a relative term it would seem. 

When T’Challa said _walk_ he actually meant _trekking deep into the forest in the middle of the night_. 

Erik finds himself looking over his shoulder every now and again to make sure he doesn’t lose his way back as they get further and further away from the palace. 

“Where the hell are we going?” he asks, wiping a hand on his forehead and squinting to keep track of T’Challa as he fades in and out of sight. 

He flashes Erik a smile over his shoulder, jerking his chin upward toward the path that leads up to the Mound. Erik tilts his head back and stares up at the craggy face of the mountainside. In the distance, he can see the crown of Bast’s head shining in the beginnings of moonlight. Her gaping jaws are every bit as menacing as he remembers them being. He fights a shiver of unease as he continues to stare up at the solid wall of stone.

“We’re walking up there?” 

T’Challa’s soft chuckle pulls his eyes away from the impossibly high peaks of the mountain range being swallowed up by blackness.

“Well we could fly or hoverbike but,” T’Challa lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I enjoy the walk.”

He starts up the path through the underbrush, the sound of the dry earth crunching underneath the heels of his boots is the only noise for miles in either direction. Erik watches him for a moment in the darkness, blinking in surprise at the nonchalant sway of his shoulders as he ducks his head and watches the ground beneath him.

“And what makes you think that I’d want to go hiking in the dark?” he finds himself asking, jogging to catch up to T’Challa who angles his head to the side and studies him with smiling eyes. 

“The stars are much prettier up there,” he says, “and I figured you could use some breathing room. You’re either cooped up in your rooms all day or in the gym ー surely that can’t be fun.”

Erik mulls that over for a second. 

T’Challa, against the royal court’s wishes, had granted him the freedom to roam a long time ago and he’d even been given him the choice to leave Wakanda altogether if he so chose. But Erik knew that he couldn’t go back. This was the land he’d always dreamt about, he wasn’t going to turn away from his last connection to his father’s legacy so easily. 

Besides, he had Nakia. Someone he considered to be a friend, someone who actually cared about him. 

He couldn’t say that there was anyone anticipating his return to the states. 

“I don’t mind it,” he says, suddenly. 

“You sure?”

He shrugs indifferently, “yeah.”

T’Challa nods. 

The look on his face is peculiar like he wants to pry, wants to ask Erik what’s changed and why he wants to stay in Wakanda, but he doesn’t. Erik knows that he’s probably curious about why Erik isn’t suddenly eager for all of the freedoms he’s being granted but he’s found his routine here. 

He’s comfortable. 

Something he had never expected to happen in Wakanda given his history. 

Erik has to squash the feelings of guilt beginning to cloud his thoughts before they can take form, tucking his hands into his pockets and raising his shoulders to ward off the oncoming chill. 

It’s colder at night which is something that he had expected. The palace gardens are kept fairly warm all year round, to keep the plants from dying, but in the darkness of the mountains, Erik finds himself shivering in his light t-shirt. Had he known he’d been going on an adventure in the middle of the night he would’ve dressed more appropriately. 

“Almost there,” T’Challa says, bumping his shoulder against Erik’s. “Are you cold?”

Erik kicks a rock in his path before grumbling, “no.”

“Don’t worry,” T’Challa says sounding slightly amused, “the view is worth it.”

Ahead of them, Erik could see the jut of stone break clean down the center, giving way to flatlands. The sky is glowing with stars, some of which he’s sure he’s never seen before. 

He studies them as they get closer to the plateau, observing their twisted shapes shining in the darkness. 

“Here we are,” T’Challa says, turning in a slow circle with his arms out. “The perfect place to see the stars.”

“Impressive,” Erik amends, staring up at Bast who’s looking out over the blurry sparkle of the city. 

He’d never been up here at night. Hadn’t been back here since T’Challa had carried his body down to Shuri’s lab. He vaguely remembers being held like a child as his vision swam in shades of gray, the sway of T’Challa’s footsteps and the urgent call of his voice like the ghost of a memory. 

Erik rubs absently at his ribcage, feeling a sharp stab of pain begin to start up under his fingertips. 

_Coming here was a bad idea._

“Why’d you bring me up here?” he asks.

He turns away from the stars, away from the judgemental sneer on Bast’s face, to stare at the man before him. T’Challa is still where he sits on the smooth face of a large rock, not quite meeting Erik’s eyes as he studies the shapeless stars above them.

“I wished to talk to you without prying ears,” he says, “it’s hard to get a moment alone with you in the palace.”

“About what?”

T’Challa meets his eyes then, his expression slightly grim. His upper lip ticks up ever so slightly but his eyes hold fast. “I did not agree with the man you were, before. You were angry at the world and justifiably so, everything you ever knew, ever loved, had been taken away from you in a senseless act of violence. The things you did, the people you killed, all of that could’ve been avoided had things gone differently between our fathers,” he trails off, shrugging slightly. “I was angry with you for a long time, even after carrying you down from here ー even after saving you.”

Erik’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth so he has to work a few times before he can get the words out but when they come they’re strong and forceful and a little bit venomous, “then why the _fuck_ are you keeping me around?”

He takes the few necessary strides over to where T’Challa sits, pulling him to his feet and giving his shoulders a firm shake. “Why am I still here?” he snaps, wanting to ignite something in him other than indifference. T’Challa lets himself be manhandled for a moment before he grabs Erik’s wrists and shoves him off, putting a significant amount of distance between them.

“My father did not give you the chance you deserved...nor did I.”

Erik steps away then, suddenly feeling like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His throat tightens up and he turns his face toward the wind. 

“I’m not a perfect man, Erik.”

“Well no shit you aren’t,” Erik walks off toward the cliff's edge. He stares down into the deep dark canopy of forest down below, the treetops as black and fathomless as an oil spill. He clenches his fists, “I didn’t ask for this! On this very mountaintop, I pulled that blade from my own chest in the hopes that I’d die and yet here we are a month later discussing semantics.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond for a long time. So long in fact that Erik spins on his heel and turns to seek out his shape in the dark. He’s as still as a statue, eyes turned away as if in shame. 

His voice is a low wet whisper when he responds, “I’m sorry.”

Erik snorts so hard it hurts. He can feel the beginnings of tears begin to well in his eyes but he holds steady, digging his nails into the soft side of his palm. 

“Stop fucking apologizing,” he says, “tell me why. Why did you let me live? After everything I’ve done — to you, to your family, what made you think that I was worth saving?”

“I don’t know,” T’Challa says, “I don’t know.”

Erik feels his resolve start to crumble a bit, unshed tears making his eyes sting. 

He’s just so fucking tired.

Tired of fighting and tired of trying to understand. 

He should be dead. 

T’Challa remained rooted to his spot, “I know you don’t want to hear it but I owe you many apologies. For bringing you back, for not finding you sooner, for my father’s mistakes.”

Erik stared at him, heart pounding, throat constricting at the vehemence in T’Challa’s tone. 

“Bringing you back may very well be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done,” T’Challa sighed and shook his head. “But I couldn’t leave you to die.”

Erik’s first instinct is to scream at him and call him a liar. He wants to yell, to get rid of his anger in the only way he knows how. But he knows he can’t do that, he’s come too far to go back to the man he once was. 

He just goes to his knees instead, fire burns the insides of his lungs as he stares at the world far below him and tries to make sense of it. 

“I can,” T’Challa starts. “I can leave if you want me to.”

Erik flinches at the touch of his hand on his shoulder, the soft rise of T’Challa’s warm palm against his clammy skin surprising yet grounding. His eyes flutter closed when T’Challa’s hand slides up to the nape of his neck, holding there for a moment before letting go. 

He ducks his head to hide his face, feeling the air leave his lungs.

“No,” Erik mumbles, shaking his head. He casts his gaze downward, suddenly uncertain as he reaches for T’Challa’s sleeve and gives it a hard tug. “Stay.”

He tries to feel ashamed of the desperate clawing feeling digging a hole into the center of his chest but he can’t. He doesn’t want to be alone, not right now. The stars aren’t enough company and the thought of sitting in the dark alone makes him feel restless. 

He can feel rather than see T’Challa go tense in his grip. Erik turns his face up to look at him when he says it again, “stay.”

Rather than answer, T’Challa joins him on the floor. He shifts for a moment, casting Erik a curious look out of the corner of his eye but remaining silent. 

He doesn’t try to retrieve his arm from Erik’s grip.

And Erik doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a bit of background about Dr. Rimono Ku  
> ー I found a Wakandan name generator on twitter. Her name basically spells out 'Hope' which is something that I want to give Erik. It's sappy I know but I thought the name was oddly fitting. 
> 
> I also want to give a big, heartfelt thank you to my friend F for beta'ing this fic. You're an absolute gem!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed! I'm also on tumblr at idlejanes.tumblr.com, come say hey!


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